The Lioness of Leiden

PROLOGUE

HETTY STEENHUIS HAD NEVER SMUGGLED hand grenades before.

She scanned the nine passengers standing on the platform in the cavernous station for any hint that a Nazi operative might be among them. They appeared to be ordinary Dutch people, nervous and distracted after four years of German occupation, waiting innocently for Tram No. 1 to Delft. It was October, a cold month in the Netherlands, and her fellow passengers raised their collars against the morning chill as a brisk wind whipped through The Hague from the North Sea. Hetty took in a deep breath of the icy air to help her stay awake. She had stayed up most of the night practicing lifting her heavy suitcase; it had to appear natural, so as not to give away its explosive contents.

Despite her fatigue, Hetty was committed to her mission. She was about to board the tram when two German soldiers whisked by, armed with submachine guns. Hetty stopped breathing and let the soldiers pass. It took every bit of fortitude in her ninety-seven-pound frame to appear unfazed by their presence. If she collapsed or gasped from lack of air, then all eyes would be on her. She had come too far to lose everything now.

By October 1944 the Allied armies had advanced from their Normandy beachhead, offering hope of rescue to the war-weary Dutch, but instead of giving up, the Germans had only worked harder to catch people like her. Hetty exhaled slowly when the soldiers walked by without a second glance, smoking their cigarettes as they patrolled the tram’s loading area. When the other passengers began to stir, Hetty picked up her suitcase and moved closer to the boarding point to assure a good seat.

CHAPTER 1

KARL DEBOER STOOD NEXT TO the tracks at Rotterdam terminal, waiting anxiously for the train to arrive. His penetrating blue eyes were framed by his long, dark hair and full beard, making him appear more like a Visigoth from the fifth century than the university student that he was. Of average height, Karl had a strong build after years of making bicycles at his uncle’s factory. The train’s not due for another hour, said Uncle Jef, putting a hand on his nephew’s back. Let’s go inside the waiting room and relax.

I can’t relax, said Karl, pacing in circles. The entire time we were training this week, Hetty was all I thought about. I can’t believe I made such a mess of things.

Karl studied the train schedule on the wall of the terminal. It was May 10, 1940, only three weeks since he and Hetty had celebrated her twentieth birthday together.

Karl had met Hetty seven months ago at a pub near the university in Leiden, where she was having a beer with his roommate, Brecht. Karl was smitten immediately. Feisty and confident, she was unlike any woman he’d met. But she was Brecht’s girlfriend, so he tried to let the moment pass.

Thinking about the occasion now, Karl was surprised that he had been attracted less by her physical allure—though she was not lacking in that department—than by her quick wit and laughing eyes, coupled with his sense that she was not someone who could be pushed around. He knew Hetty was taken, but he saw no harm in having a three-way chat with Brecht and his girlfriend. He ordered another round of beer and tried to start a conversation.

But before he could say a word, Hetty started in. Brecht told me you’re a communist, Hetty said, smiling in that bantering style he later learned to love.

I’ve been to a few of their meetings, he replied cautiously, watching her expression closely for a sign whether this had ruined his chances with her.

Don’t communists believe that ‘the history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles’? she asked.

Hetty was quoting from Marx’s Manifesto, but Karl admitted he had no idea what she was talking about.

Ha, Brecht guffawed. I told you she’s smart, Karl.

Hetty ignored Brecht’s compliment, instead zeroing in on Karl. Don’t you believe in class struggle, Mr. DeBoer?

I never gave it any thought, Karl replied, still flummoxed by the effect this young woman had on him. All I know is that the communists are the only ones preparing to organize a resistance when Hitler comes.

The next thing Karl knew, Hetty invited herself to attend a meeting of the communists. He was thrilled that this fascinating young woman, who had challenged him with such grace and charm, wanted to spend more time with him. She wanted to know about the communists because the German Reich had just invaded Poland, she said, and she had no confidence that Hitler would abide by the neutrality agreement he had signed with the Netherlands.

Brecht sensed the mutual attraction between Karl and Hetty and was not happy about it—and rightfully so. By the time Karl and Hetty attended their first communist meeting, she had broken up with Brecht. Feeling the inevitable pressure of impending war to make every moment count and to live authentically, Karl and Hetty shared their first kiss after the second meeting, standing at the Leiden station while Hetty waited for her train home to The Hague.

Because Karl was most comfortable wearing work clothes—his regular attire—at his uncle’s factory, he stood out at Leiden University, where most young men wore slacks and blazers. His long hair and beard were different too, but they helped him blend in when he attended local meetings of the communists. Hetty remained curiously attracted by the notion that Karl had grown up in a working-class household, even after he told her he was the heir to his uncle’s lucrative bicycle factory. His kind smile, natural humility, and ready sense of humor were not, she assured him, something she usually associated with people who had money, and her parents knew a lot of them.

Whatever is going on between you and your girlfriend, said Uncle Jef gently, bringing Karl’s mind back to the train platform, you can set things right as soon as you get back to Leiden.

Suddenly a policeman scurried urgently along the platform.

Attack! We’re under attack! he shouted to the waiting passengers. The Germans have attacked Holland!

Uncle Jef stopped the policeman as he ran by.

Are you sure?

I just heard it on the two-way, said the policeman, out of breath. German paratroopers are in The Hague!

C’mon, Karl, said Uncle Jef, pulling his nephew by the arm. No more drills. This is the real thing.

Karl lingered for a moment to gaze down the track. Knowing Hetty would have to wait, he heaved a sigh and ran to catch up with his uncle.

In the woods outside of Rotterdam, Karl and Uncle Jef scanned the skies for trouble. Suddenly a German fighter flew low over the trees, its machine guns blazing. Bullets exploded into the dirt inches from their shallow entrenchments as both men dove headfirst into foxholes on either side of their anti-aircraft gun.

Karl buried his face in the soft dirt, the blood pumping fast through his veins. No one had tried to kill him before. For an instant he was consumed by a sense of calm, which surprised him. Then fear grabbed him like a tiger attacking its prey. He lay frozen in place, afraid to move, when Jef jerked him to his feet, gasping for breath.

C’mon, boy, Jef barked. That Nazi fighter will loop back around, and we need to be ready.

The ground rumbled as a cluster of German heavy bombers flew overhead to drop their deadly payloads on the city of Rotterdam.

Breathing hard, Jef shook the dirt from his hair. That must have been the slowest plane in the Luftwaffe.

Karl, relieved to still be alive, rinsed the dust from his mouth with water from his canteen.

His uncle took a swig from the canteen and added, Any faster, and it would have killed us both.

Karl nodded somberly as he scanned the sky for encroaching threats. Then he crawled to their anti-aircraft weapon, an Oerlikon 20 mm cannon, where his uncle was already preparing the big gun for battle.

Karl had been nineteen, a few months before he met Hetty at Leiden, when Uncle Jef brought him to his first meeting of the air volunteers, an organization funded by local industry for the air defense of their region. Now, his training was being tested by the attacking Luftwaffe. War was far worse than he’d imagined. At least during training, he could take breaks and start over if he made a mistake. On the battlefield there was no time to catch your breath—and no second chances.

Emboldened by the enemy fire, Jef adjusted the gun’s sights to prepare for the return of the low-flying fighter. "Let’s see if we can kill him next time."

Karl turned his head toward the sky to witness another group of heavy bombers. Explosions boomed in the distance as smoke rose from the center of the city.

Do you think anyone can rescue Rotterdam from those beasts? he asked.

Jef shook his head gloomily, while sliding sideways on his knees to make room for his nephew to operate the weapon.

Our army has held for four days—longer than anyone expected. But now that the Reich has sworn to destroy our cities one by one, I’m afraid the politicians will surrender. They don’t have the stomach for it.

No matter what they decide in The Hague, we can’t last much longer out here. Karl pointed to the open box of ammunition that they had been using. These will go fast. Then he tapped an unopened box of ammunition and added, We have another box, but that’s it.

We wasted too much ammunition shooting at the heavy bombers, Jeff replied, locking the feeder belt to prepare their gun for action. We should have known that this gun wouldn’t be effective against planes flying that high.

I wish we could reach the military command for orders, said Karl.

Jef shook his head grimly. The two-way is dead. We’re on our own. Should we leave?

Not yet. Karl grabbed the twin handles of the cannon to balance the muzzle on its swivel, just as they’d practiced. That fighter will come back. Seated behind the big gun, he pointed the weapon toward the sky, searching for his target.

The German fighter suddenly reappeared, executing a slow left banking maneuver to square up into its attack path. Karl tried to control his fear as the vintage fighter came in for the kill. He gripped both handles of the cannon tightly and squeezed the trigger, but the tracers went wide when the German dipped his wing at the last minute. The maneuver spoiled the German’s flight path, and it flew past them close to the ground with a deafening roar.

Hurrying to swivel the gun for the next pass, Karl touched the white-hot muzzle with the back of his hand.

Shit, he yelled as he leapt back, grabbing his right hand. The smell of seared flesh and gunpowder filled the air.

The German plane hung in the sky as it turned its nose toward them for another run. Karl jerked the gun’s muzzle toward the fighter, his injured hand on fire as he tried to keep a steady grip on his weapon. The fighter leveled off, pointing its twin guns directly at them. Then Karl pressed the trigger.

Whop. Whop. Whop.

Three rounds penetrated the plane’s engine. But the German fighter kept coming, its guns ablaze, while flames leapt from its damaged motor.

Bullets pounded the dirt in front of them, stinging Karl’s face with flying pebbles. He ducked involuntarily and his hands slipped from the gun. Quickly, he grabbed the twin handles of the weapon and resumed firing, hurling more hot lead into the plane’s engine until the feeder belt was empty.

Fuck. Karl slammed his fist into the dirt.

Suddenly the fighter exploded, breaking up in a fiery ball.

The smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air when Karl released his grip on the weapon. He had never killed anyone before, but he felt nothing for the pilot who had just tried to kill him. She did OK, right, Uncle?

Karl admired the anti-aircraft gun as if it were his own child.

Good enough, said Jef, whose triumphant smile turned to shame when he realized his trousers were soaked with his own urine.

Nothing to be ashamed of, said Karl, patting his uncle on the shoulder. I’ve never been so scared in my life. I would still be whimpering in the dirt if you hadn’t pulled me up.

Jef looked down as he opened the last box of ammunition to reload the Oerlikon 20. Another plane will be here any second, he said.

Still reeling from the last round of fire, Karl looked over at his uncle and said, When our ammunition is gone, we won’t stand a chance.

Jef nodded, knowing his nephew was right.

Dismayed by the inexorable procession of Luftwaffe bombers flying toward Rotterdam, Karl allowed despair to creep in as he thought of friends in the city.

I can only imagine how terrible it must be for the workers at our factory.

Then his despair shifted to his girlfriend. Wishing he’d had time for another conversation with Hetty, Karl wondered whether the invading army had reached Leiden yet. He started to remove his sweater—the blue one with a red stripe that Hetty had knitted for him—when suddenly the shriek of another fighter made him dive into position. Karl pressed the trigger of his gun, sending tracers into the cockpit of the attacking German. He tried to wipe the dust off his face with his sleeve, but his sweater, wet from perspiration, only made it dirtier.

The attacking aircraft swerved and flew away. The noise was deafening.

Maybe you shot the pilot, Jef shouted, trying to make himself heard as the fighter plane distanced itself from them.

I’m just glad he left. Karl patted his weapon, taking care not to touch the hot barrel again. We’re out of ammunition.

Karl glanced at a pile of animal excrement, covered with flies, a few feet from where his face had been buried in the dirt. Back at home Karl had killed dozens of flies with a swatter, but today he was the one who struggled to survive while the carefree flies happily planted their eggs in manure, under no immediate threat. He reflected that he and the flies were, in their own way, each doing what was necessary for their species to survive.

Let’s get out of here, said Jef, glancing up at the Luftwaffe heavy bombers. Without ammunition, we have no chance against another attack.

What about our workers? asked Karl, while dusting himself off.

They’ll have to fend for themselves. Jef grimaced.

Let’s go to the factory, Karl countered. Maybe we can help.

The last I heard before the two-way died is that the Dutch army is barely holding at the Nieuwe Maas River, said Jef, referring to the main waterway outside Rotterdam. We can’t know when the Germans will break through.

I still think we should risk it, Karl argued. We might be able to save some of them.

Jef stared at the expanding plume of smoke over Rotterdam. There won’t even be a factory by the time we get there.

Following his uncle’s gaze toward the smoke that eclipsed the late-afternoon sun, Karl nodded as he broke down the firing mechanism on the big gun and scattered its parts in the forest. Despite his desire to save others, Karl knew Uncle Jef was right. They didn’t have time. He hopped into the passenger side of Jef’s truck, which they had hidden beneath some shade trees. We got lucky, said Karl, patting the truck affectionately. Not a scratch on her.

Karl wrapped a rag around his burnt hand. Home to Friesland? Is that still your plan?

Jef nodded while he shifted gears and worked the clutch to navigate the winding dirt road that would take them to the main highway.

Karl was impressed by his uncle’s choice. Both had been born in Friesland, a northern province of the Netherlands, where people spoke their own unique language. Karl was a child when they moved to Rotterdam, but Uncle Jef still had friends in Friesland who would help them. Jef had reasoned that the Germans would have their hands full administering the more populous, Dutch-speaking provinces of the Netherlands, making the north country a good place to hide.

Karl was grateful that his uncle had kept a blanket in the truck, which he quickly wrapped around himself as the outside temperature dropped rapidly with the setting sun. The landscape on either side turned to shadows as they sped through farm country. For now, they were safe.

There’s nothing worse than not knowing where someone you love has gone, Karl reflected, his eyes locked on the dark road ahead.

They had just entered a hilly area where clumps of trees cast shadows across the narrow highway when Uncle Jef glanced over at his nephew. I know. It’s going to be a while until you see Hetty again.

Karl nodded despondently. The last time I saw her, we had a fight, he said, staring out the window. She wanted me to stay with her, but I couldn’t miss air volunteer training.

You did the right thing to keep your oath to the volunteers.

Did I? Karl stared silently at the road ahead. What happens when we get to Friesland? Can I send her a note from there?

Uncle Jef shook his head. Can you imagine the risk my friends are taking to hide us? If your note gets intercepted, all of us are done.

Actually, I already left a note, Karl whispered.

You what? His uncle’s voice rose in anger.

I gave Brecht a note for Hetty in case I don’t return.

That was stupid. Uncle Jef shook his head incredulously but kept his eyes on the winding road. You can’t trust a jealous man!

Brecht’s over that, said Karl, recalling the hours of conversation Hetty had with Brecht after they broke up. She persisted until all three of us agreed to be friends again.

Still, it was reckless of you to—

Suddenly two bullets slammed through the windshield. The truck’s brakes squealed, and it swerved to the left, crashing through underbrush as it left the road. Uncle Jef’s blood sprayed on the windshield as the truck plunged down a steep embankment. Karl’s head crashed into the windshield, knocking him out.

The German ambush team scrambled from its hiding place. They crossed the road and peered into the black void where the truck was last seen. All six soldiers leaped over the road’s edge down the embankment into the dark woods, guns ready.

CHAPTER 2

HETTY SHUDDERED WHEN A SQUAD of German soldiers marched past them near the university center in Leiden. I can’t get used to seeing them here, Mimi. They’re like unwelcome guests at a party.

Unwelcome guests with guns, Mimi whispered, staring warily at a German’s submachine gun.

Don’t stare. Hetty tugged at her friend to accompany her to the opposite side of the street. Trying to blend in, they walked into a small café to distract themselves from the looming threat.

Before the invasion, Leiden had been a quaint medieval university town shared by students, tourists, and small businesses. When the Germans arrived two weeks ago, residents stayed home, wondering how their new overseers would treat them. But the shops had reopened on this sunny June afternoon, and people seemed eager to come outside. While the Germans kept their distance, everyone tread carefully in their menacing presence.

They say classes will resume next week so that we can finish final exams, said Hetty listlessly as she sipped her coffee. I don’t know how I feel about it.

Hetty was known for her winning smile, which came in handy for a young woman attending Leiden University, where the other students were mostly men. But today she wasn’t smiling. Her hazel eyes missed nothing as she sized up the armed German policemen outside the café.

I’m excited for things to get back to normal, said Mimi, taking a bite of her cookie.

How can anything be normal while the Germans are here? Hetty asked rhetorically.

Mimi shrugged off Hetty’s pessimism and admired the people walking by on the street. Maybe the French will force the Germans out of Holland.

We’ll see, said Hetty cautiously. I heard the war is not going well for the Allies.

Any news about Karl? asked Mimi as she sipped her tea.

Hetty shook her head with a frown. Nothing.

As they were enjoying their beverages, three young men entered the café and turned adoring eyes toward Mimi, whose short, dark hair framed a perfect face with high cheekbones and green eyes that flashed when she was excited. Hetty laughed, despite her own troubles.

"Boys are like puppies